


in my year of oceans and sunburns and purging

by kyrilu



Series: just another fallow field [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five glances into a house by the sea. (Or: the evolution of the Brown-Graham home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my year of oceans and sunburns and purging

**Author's Note:**

> This was, oddly enough, supposed to be entirely fluff. But I, er, got carried away with angst and now it's actually a bit dark.

**1\. the front porch**

Matthew shows up on the doorstep of Will's house in Florida like he's just yet another addition to Will's collection of stray dogs. It's been two years since Hannibal Lecter has been captured - two years since Will got a scar carved into his side.

He looks to see if Matthew's holding a knife or a gun or anything that could potentially be a weapon. His hands are empty. Will considers calling Jack. Or maybe fetching his old gun, stored in a dusty drawer somewhere.

"Don't panic," Matthew drawls, with a gesture of resignation, holding his hands out. "You can even strip search me if you like."

Will stares. He wonders if he could snap out a sarcastic _Nice seeing you again, but I don't need any more serial killers in my life again, look how that turned out_ , but he sighs. He can see the determination in Matthew's eyes. He wants...a conversation, maybe, closure. He'd given up two years of his life for Will. Will owes him this much.

And he _knows_  Matthew; he still has his empathy. Matthew's not going to hurt him.

"You gonna invite me in?" Matthew says, and Will feels himself retreat into his house, a gesture of something like welcome. Matthew follows.

(Neither of them know it yet, but Matthew will _stay._ )

 

**2\. the living room**

Matthew keeps coming. He gets a job in town - in construction, since they don't seem to care if you've been institutionalized or not, and he rents a motel room. But somehow he always finds the time to show up at Will's house again.

Their initial talks are either intensity personified or complete silence.

 

* * *

 

For example, their first conversation:

"Why are you here?" Will says, even though he does think he knows. There are two untouched glasses of lemonade on a coffee table. He's doing his best not to fidget as he eyes Matthew, who's lounging lazily on a sofa like he belongs there.

Matthew doesn't reply immediately. One of the dogs - the labrador retriever Theo - has approached him curiously. Theo sniffs his knees. Matthew cracks a ghost of a smile, offering his hand out to the dog, then scratching under his chin. Then he looks up.

"Remember my proposal?" he says, softly. "It's been on my mind for a while, Mr. Graham.  I’ve been waiting on my answer.”

Will shakes his head. He says, “No. I’m...here. I can’t go back. Not again.” His tone is firm. The only place that he can experience the blood and death and thrill is just in his own mind. Matthew’s dream of hawks touches it, creeps in when he least expects it, bringing in the sky while the stag brings the woods while his fishing brings the river, but it’s only that: a dream.

“I figured you’d say that,” Matthew says, with his head tilted to the side, thoughtful. “I saw the news. Your Judas cut you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t get him in time.”

“Well,” Will says, taking a sip of his lemonade, the glass hiding his face, “I got him.” The declaration is fierce, still tinged with that anger that he had when he told Matthew _Kill Hannibal Lecter_ ; when he promised Lecter his reckoning.

“And that’s all?”

Matthew’s implying: You don’t want to kill him for good? You don’t want to try your hand with other people, other canvases?

“It’s a shame,” Matthew says, but something in his voice is accepting. A little bit sad, Will thinks. “But it was stupid of me to think otherwise. The Biblical Judas Iscariot got thirty pieces of silver out of the equation, and well, y’know how that turned out. You can’t always expect _quid pro quo_.”

“It was a favor,” Will reminds him, gently.

Matthew laughs. “True,” he agrees. “True.”

 

* * *

 

And their second ‘conversation’:

The next evening, Matthew returns. Will comes home from the boatyard and sees Matthew sprawled on the sofa again, engrossed in a true crime novel. He’s sweaty - his new job, Will later finds out - and Will can see his muscled arms and chest through his thin t-shirt.

Theo is nestled across Matthew’s legs. (Why the hell do his dogs always seem to take to the serial killers?)

“You left your back door unlocked,” Matthew says, by way of greeting.

“Oh,” is all Will says.

He settles into one of the chairs. Matthew’s still busy reading. Will shrugs, finds the fish hooks that he’s been preparing, twining them into intricate knots. He likes the process of getting his hands preoccupied, letting his mind run elsewhere. Soon he’s immersed in thoughts of the ocean: the wind was cool and calm today, and the sun was soft, warm. Maybe he can get up early tomorrow to go fishing…

Despite his daydreams, he can feel Matthew’s presence. It’s _there_ , a vague solid form of something, real. The silence is strangely companionable. After a time, Will drops asleep, exhausted from the day’s work.

He wakes up, later. The hooks, which had been in his lap, are set aside on the coffee table, presumably so that he won’t accidentally puncture himself.

Matthew has left his novel on the bookshelf nailed into the wall, next to Will’s books on veterinary care for the dogs. _H.H. Holmes_ , Will reads on the spine, and frowns. It’s a subject he’s taught about before for his classes.

A library receipt protruding from the book says in a messy scrawl, _Gone out to get us dinner. I’ll be back soon._

Will paces. He stretches his legs, sore from being crooked at an awkward angle while he slept. He takes a seat on the couch that Matthew had been on - it’s more comfortable here - and thinks that it still feels warm.

 

**3\. the backyard**

Matthew’s visits become routine. Sometimes he’s the one who’s passed out in the living room, so Will’s the one who has to prepare dinner. Sometimes he watches TV which Will supposes is a good thing, because he rarely uses it himself. (He pointedly ignores the screen whenever crime-focused news come on.)

Matthew picks up learning how to knot fish hooks from Will. Will catches himself flipping through Matthew’s library books about crime bosses, spies, scams, but leaves the ones about serial killers alone. An odd fiction book or two is often included, and when Matthew notices Will looking, he borrows more fiction books.

One weekend, Will shows up at Matthew’s motel room and drags him out to fish. It becomes a Saturday tradition.

It’s not bad, Will thinks. The dogs like him. Matthew hasn’t said anything resembling his earlier offer. He isn't too talkative, but when he does, it's worth listening to.

Of course, demons really can't be banished that easily.

Will wakes up in the living room from a nap. He can see a light from one of the windows. Matthew's in the backyard, and Will can smell a sharp and pungent scent.

The grass crackles underfoot as he navigates his way in the darkness. Matthew is crouched over a little fire, blowing on it, letting the sparks drift into the night.

"You're a fire-setter," Will says.

"Spot-on diagnosis," Matthew says, dryly. "Yeah. That's why I was in the first place. People don't like their private property getting torched."

Will sits down on the ground. Matthew is coaxing the fire to grow bigger. His eyes are set in a concentrated squint as he keeps feeding it dry grass and twigs.

Will asks, "How does if feel like?" It's a very Hannibal Lecter-esque question. But it doesn't like he's Lecter. He's Will Graham and he wants to _understand._

The flames dance underneath Matthew's fingertips. He looks at Will and says, "Like a purging, Mr. Graham."

They both watch it burn for a little longer. Then Matthew puts it out, and they both walk back into the house, smelling of wood and smoke.

 

* * *

 

 Every month or so, it soon becomes a familiar sight: smoke curling from the backyard. It's a ritual that he knows not to intrude on after the first time, but he observes it from the window, as Matthew fans the flames.

 

**3\. the kitchen**

Matthew is a decent cook. They both like simple meals: sandwiches, salads, soups, pastas, nothing complicated. Sometimes they enjoy their freshly caught fish.

Once, abruptly, when they're eating, Matthew says abruptly, "Do you ever miss it?"

"My old life?" Will says. "Chasing after murderers, losing sleep, and unintentionally consuming dubious meat?"

"If you put it that way," Matthew says, rolling his eyes. He changes his phrasing. "Mr. Graham...you don't make fires of your own. Don't you ever feel like you're on the precipice? Like you need the adrenaline to scorch out the gods of your soul, to catch you and give you wings before you fall?"

Will isn't sure how to reply. He sets his sandwich down, thinks. He says, "Fires won't work for me. I can't burn it away. That'd just be creating a shrine in its honor, nearly giving it the destruction it needs. No, I," he forces himself to continue, "I always feel like this. But being _here_ , with my boats and my fish, it helps. I think I can flood it out."

"You don't need to be fucking  _tormented,"_  Matthew says - it’s a growl, a snarl. “I’d go with you, if you need to release it. I’d lift a hundred people on antlers if you want--”

“No,” Will cuts him off. “I trust you with your fires. Trust me with this. I’m not Hannibal Lecter. I’m not Garret Jacob Hobbs. I’m not like any of them.”

Matthew looks at him with solemn eyes, and reaches over to touch the side of Will’s face with one hand. He traps Will with his gaze - here’s the image of a hawk, of an orderly, of a prisoner - and he whispers, “Okay. Okay.” He withdraws his hand and Will realizes that it’s an apology.

 

**4\. the bedroom**

The first thing that Will hears after a nightmare is his frantic breaths, which sound close to hyperventilation, harsh, labored, like he’s been stabbed in the throat. The comparison is painful: he remembers putting his hands to Abigail’s neck.

The second thing he hears is Matthew’s voice. Matthew must have stayed overnight, slept on the couch. But now he’s at Will’s bedside, peering over him.

“Shh,” Matthew murmurs, and he presses a palm on Will’s chest, the rapid heartbeat probably like a dagger to his hand. The sibilant 'Shh' is accented with Matthew’s lisp, startlingly familiar, and Will relaxes. Lets Matthew hold him down.

“You’re safe,” Matthew says, quietly. He’s putting his weight onto the single touch, but he isn’t heavy, not really. He is gravity keeping Will from falling off of the edge of the earth into the sea. He is Matthew, Will’s Matthew, who looks at him with a reverence that makes Will shudder. Matthew’s other hand curls underneath his shirt, strokes the scar on his waist.

Then he leans down and kisses Will. Will sinks back, lets Matthew kiss him again, and again, and again. Their bodies are pressed together and his breathing is better, calmer.

Matthew’s mouth moves lower, trailing down his neck, his stomach. His hand is gripping onto Will’s scar as if they’re bandages, but it’s only a small shock of pain, a sensation that makes him shiver.

Will hisses when Matthew mouths around the erection through his boxers. Matthew doesn’t remove his boxers, just keeps playing, rubbing at the fabric, until Will says, “Please--just--”

Matthew complies. He tugs Will’s underwear down and takes Will’s dick into his mouth, pressing kisses there. He’s sucking, a predictable rhythm that makes Will’s hips jerk up, wanting to feel everything, goddamned _everything._ Matthew’s fingers are rubbing out circles on his scar as if he’s claiming it as his own.

Will chokes out, “God,” breathes unsteadily when Matthew’s teeth graze his length. It’s teasing but purposeful. He feels like he’s one of Matthew’s fires, augmented and quenched, fed and hungry, controlled with easy, practiced movements.

He comes into Matthew’s mouth. Matthew gently touches Will’s spent cock and tips his head up to kiss him. Will thinks that he tastes like ash.

 

**5\. the front porch (again)**

Will wakes up alone. Matthew isn’t in the backyard, nor the living room, nor the kitchen. Will opens the front door and sees Matthew sitting on the faded green porch swing, kicking up a leg back and forth.

Matthew isn’t wearing his shirt. Will can see how his tattoos shine darkly in the morning sunlight, brightened by a natural fire.

Will sits down beside him. The swing slows its arc: forward, backward, and then a standstill. Their hands fold together, fingers curled tightly, as if Matthew thinks that they’re going to fall off the swing and need only each other for balance.

“Will,” Matthew starts, softly, “did you know what I was thinking when I cut off that bailiff’s ear? I was thinking of Christ’s healing of the servant who had his ear cut off. I was wondering if you could make me whole.”

“I can’t,” Will says. He traces the outline of one of Matthew’s tattoos with his free hand, chases the shape of an adjacent tattoo. “You don’t -- you’re always comparing me to a god, to a son of god. I’m as whole as you are.” He gives Matthew a bitter smile.

“Well,” Matthew says, “that’s the entire point of a jigsaw puzzle. Two separate pieces can fit together to create the whole.”

Will doesn’t know what to say. He tilts his head back, breathes, and smiles as he feels the sunlight flicker on his face.

“What d’you want to do today?” Matthew asks, idly, kicking up an ankle and making the swing quiver.  “Fish, read, go out for a walk?”

“Nah,” Will says. “Let’s stay here right now. Just for awhile. I don’t want to get up.”

He continues to map an invisible path against Matthew’s tattoos. Tonight he’ll set a fire with Matthew, see how it feels for himself. He’ll think that he’s rising with the dissipating smoke, rising until he’s up in the atmosphere, somewhere where he twists into the clouds, just _gone_ , as if he’s never been.


End file.
